Seven Days A'Passing
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Left on a scuttled ship, newly partnered Napoleon and Illya must find a way to work through their difference and get rescued - part of the Twelve Fics of Christmas


Seven Days a Passing

**orockthro**

NS and IK have been partnered, with only moderate success, for 2 months when they're trapped on a half-scuttled ship for the better part of a week without communication to the outside world, and are forced to work together/break through their communication walls to get themselves home. 

The lack of motion was the first thing that trickled into Napoleon's consciousness. He managed to get his head upright and looked groggily around the room. He was still tied to the chair, but he was on his side now in a thoroughly trashed room. Most disturbing was a lack of his partner.

"Illya," he tried, but the word caught in his mouth. Coughing, he tried again. "Illya?"

"Here… I think." A pile of furniture heaved and a moment later, Illya appeared. There was a dried trickle of blood on his forehead and it made the young man seem even younger. "What happened?" He struggled across the deck to work on Napoleon's bonds.

"No idea." Napoleon shook himself free of the ropes and immediately looked around for a weapon. The captain's quarters were well appointed, but lacking in defensible material.

The deck was at a sharp angle and he half-slid toward the door and put his shoulder to it. "Illya?" They managed to wrestle it open. "I think we might be in trouble."

The ship they'd been held prisoner on was caught on a coral reef and there was nothing but sea surrounding them.

"I'm going to go see if I can find someone." Illya hauled himself along the rail and disappeared.

Napoleon nodded to himself and went in the other direction. He found the bridge and instinct sent him to the radio.

"Mayday, Mayday, can anyone here me?" He toggled the switch on and off and listened for a responding crackle. Nothing. He tried again with the same result. He checked the charts left on the console and shook his head.

Sighing, he left the bridge and went out onto the foredeck and shaded his eyes with his hands. Water and more water was all he could see. "This is not good at all."

He headed back and met Illya halfway.

"I found the galley and the water tank seems to be holding. We have about four days of water, maybe a week and a half of food if we are careful." He looked up at the cloudless sky. "If we get rain that would help. I will jury rig something in case."

_Perfect._ Solo thought. _I'm trying to get us home and he's thinking about his stomach._

As if Illya could read his thoughts, the Russian continued. "Being able to communicate and be rescued will be moot if we die of thirst or hunger before they get here."

"Did you find anyone?"

"We appear to be the only ones on the vessel. The life raft is missing, as are the water survival rings."

"Lifejackets. They are called lifejackets," Napoleon snapped and saw Kuryakin's eyes grow cold.

"I apologize for my lack of knowledge of all your idioms."

From Illya's curt response, Napoleon could tell he'd hurt Illya's feelings. After all, the man did speak seven other languages besides his own. "I'm sorry. This is a bad business. We've got to cooperate if we are going to get out of here."

Illya murmured something. _Probably easier said than done._

Their partnership hadn't been the smoothest. Neither wanted a partner, especially the one they had. Napoleon was too much of a gadabout for Illya. The Russian was all seriousness and business. He didn't seem to know how to enjoy life. To Napoleon's way of thinking, enjoying life and all that it had to offer was what made the work they did meaningful.

"I found the radio back there. Do you want to take a look at it?"

Wordlessly, Illya nodded and trailed behind Napoleon.

"Why do you think they…?" The pause meant Illya was searching for the right word.

After a moment, Napoleon suggested, "Scuttled?"

"Yes, scuttled the ship?"

"I don't think anyone does it on purpose, unless it's an act of piracy or mutiny. With THRUSH, either is possible. To run aground on a coral reef means that there's probably land nearby, but I couldn't tell you where." A seagull flew over hear and Napoleon pointed excitedly. "That cements it. There has to be an island or something."

"Which might be nothing more than a clump of palm trees and devoid of food and water."

_Thank you, Mr. Positive. _"I agree. I think we should stay put, especially if we can get a message off. The radio is this way."

Napoleon checked out the rest of the ship while Illya worked. He found blankets and pillows that weren't saturated with salt water. While it was attractive to think of taking a swim, common sense kept him on board. His skin was sticky and salty, but he didn't dare use any fresh water. He hated to admit it, but Illya was right. Without food and especially water, their chances of survival were slim.

He'd attached a knife to the end of a pole and was wrapping it with twine when Illya appeared. His face was flush and he didn't look altogether well.

He sat down beside Napoleon and studied the horizon. "I got off a message just before the radio exploded. No idea if anyone heard it." He watched Napoleon for a moment. "Are you after a white whale?"

"No, but I thought fresh fish…" Napoleon trailed off when he realized Illya had made a joke. "Um, have you seen one?"

"A whale, yes. Once just off the sea of Okhotsk, we came across one that had romantic designs upon our submarine. It got very rocky for a while. We had to eat sitting on the deck because the sub kept going up and down." He made an appropriate gesture with his hand. After a few nights with our sub, however, it was neither white nor virginal

"You're kidding."

Illya laughed. "There is a good chance that I am." Illya sobered. "I want to be friends, Napoleon. You and I have not… hit it off very well."

"To say the least." Napoleon set the harpoon aside. "We do okay with work, but…"

"Not as well otherwise." Illya offered his hand. "I would like to be friends with you, Mr. Solo."

"Then start by calling me Napoleon." Napoleon took it, amazed at its size, not surprised by its strength.

"Napoleon." Illya smiled, a charmingly boyish thing, and Napoleon felt a sudden lurch in his groin. That was… unexpected.

"It's very warm out here." Illya was looking a bit flushed.

"Wait until the night when we lose the Trades. It will go from warm to miserable."

"That **is** good news." Illya touched his forehead and winced.

"How's the head?"

"Painfully attached."

Napoleon moved closer and reached out to touch Illya's head. The man shied from his touch. "It's not just a lack of food and water that kills people out here. Wounds turn septic very fast out here. I promise I won't bite."

"Well, if you promise." Illya winced a bit as Napoleon probed the area. "How does it look?"

"I think you will have a glorious bruise when you get around to it, but you'll live."

"That's what I was afraid of."

Sun and wind burnt, Napoleon moved from his position on the bow of the ship and back into what little shade the bridge offered. It was as hot inside as out, but outside there had been a breeze - hot and drying, but at least it was something. Now the sun was starting to dip below the horizon and the wind was gone.

Napoleon felt sticky and very unkempt. He sat on a flat surface and tried to put some order to his hair at least. The salt and wind had been playing havoc with it.

"Leave it. You look very roguish that way." Napoleon looked up at Illya as he appeared, holding out a cup and a plate out to him. "The food is nearly inedible, but, here, drink, at least. ."

"It's warm." Still, it felt good on Napoleon chapped lips and parched throat. Napoleon poked the fork into the mass on his plate and frowned. The fishing had been pointless and Napoleon didn't blame the fish, considering what they were force to use as bait. They were steadily eating down their stores.

"As is everything here. Savor it, that is the last of it." Illya sat down beside him and brushed a trickle of sweat from his temple. "And I thought Survival School was miserable."

"You don't like the heat."

"Not as a rule. I am more adapted to temperate climes." Like Napoleon, he'd divested himself of his suit and tie. He'd cut his trousers off just above the knee and wore just them and his tee shirt. He'd even lost his shoes and walked the ship barefoot. Napoleon still clung to some decorum and left his pants whole, but he, too, wore just his tee shirt and no shoes.

"You have that whole pirate look down." Napoleon scratched his beard. It was at the itchy stage.

"Arr," Illya snarled, but then abandoned it. "I am not meant for a seafaring life."

"Yet your commission is in the Russian Navy."

"There has been a Kuryakin in the Russian Navy for as long as there has been a Russian Navy or Kuryakins. My father told me it was in my blood. He lied." Illya raked his hair off his forehead. "I am hot, tired and very ready to not be here."

"If we were in New York, we'd probably be up to our hips in snow… and Christmas shoppers. Do you know what day it is?"

Illya pulled his watch from the pocket of his shorts. "The twenty fourth. We've been here seven days."

"Christmas Eve. Maybe we can hitch a ride with Santa."

"If one believes such things."

"If one does." Napoleon sniffed his tee shirt. "But smelling and looking the way we do, he'd probably pass us by."

"Not St. Nicholas. He specializes in the weak, unfortunate, and needy, which we sadly qualify for on all counts.

In the past few days, the two had grown closer and Napoleon had come to appreciate Illya's view on life. He wasn't sure Illya appreciate or agreed with Napoleon's, but it was okay. They had reached a happy middle ground.

The sound of waves lapping against the hull made Napoleon sleepy as did the heat. He set his plate and cup aside and leaned back. "We'd been busy racing around trying to find that last gift or rushing to a holiday party." He opened an eye. "What is Christmas like for you?"

"There is friends and family. And alcohol. My youngest brother has an enormous capacity for drink. He and my uncle start drinking around noon, even before Mamma serves the _Pagach_." "What's that?"

"It is traditionally the first thing eaten after the Christmas Eve fast. First you dip it in honey and that represents all the sweetness that life has to offer. Then you spread it with chopped garlic and that represents the bitterness."

Napoleon smiled. "Then what?"

"Along with the fruits, nuts, pickled vegetable, potatoes and meats, there would be_Kutya,_ a porridge with honey and poppy seeds and the _Bobal'ki._ They are tiny biscuits accompanied by sauerkraut." Illya's stomach gurgled, but he put his untouched plate down with Napoleon's and sighed unhappily.

"You miss your home."

"Very much. America is a wonderful county, although I do not understand much of the customs, but it is not home."

"I couldn't imagine having to leave my country to go somewhere else."

"You are not Russian. We do as we are told."

"For what it's worth, it's been nice getting to know you, tovarisch."

"Thank you. And you, my friend." For a long moment, they were silent. "You think we are going to die."

"I do." _There, the elephant in the room had been exposed_. "If you'd gotten a message off, we'd be rescued by now."

"If I must die, then I am glad it will be with a man I have come to respect, if not totally understand."

Napoleon smiled at that. He wished there had been time to learn more about the enigma that was his partner. There had been glimmers of attraction between them, although Napoleon wasn't sure if they were just hopeful wishing on his part or the real McCoy. Now he would never know. His eyes drifted close and he felt Illya settle against him. "Right back at you, partner."

Napoleon heard the noise and struggled to place it. He sat up and listened again. Illya murmured in his sleep and rolled over, his head pillowed on his arms.

Curious, Napoleon staggered to his feet and moved outside. The air was still and sultry. The moon had risen and cast a golden staircase across the waves.

There was the noise again, a tinkling sound, sweet and pure. He looked, blinked and looked again. There was a man, dressed in red and trimmed with white. He was wearing goggles and he lifted them

"Santa?" Napoleon croaked.

"Close enough, my friend. Let's get you home." The voice didn't sounds much like the way he'd envisioned it, but Napoleon didn't care.

"Illya's in there." He pointed towards the wheelhouse, nearly collapsing from the effort. "We have to take him, too. He's my partner."

"There's room for both of you."

The helicopter hovered just inches from the deck of the Coast Guard vessel and then set down.

"Any survivors?"

"Just two."

"We never would have known without that message. Too bad the rest of the crew didn't make it."

"Dead?"

"Gone. Abandoned ship."

"Stupid. The only way to be found is to stay with your craft."

The man looked over his shoulder as he pulled the orange slicker, its edges trimmed with reflective tape. "Those two are in rough shade, though. One of them thought I was Santa."

"Tis the season. Radio Honolulu and let them know we are coming in. And, Nick, Merry Christmas."

And to all a good night. 


End file.
